


A Cold Thanksgiving Rain

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, The Persuaders
Genre: Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:08:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27688732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: References stories: 'Wrong End of the Stick' and 'Spending Christmas'
Kudos: 3





	A Cold Thanksgiving Rain

Lord Brett Sinclair strolled around the brilliantly-lit reception room, idly sipping his glass of fine champagne while examining the artwork displayed on the walls. One casual wave of his hand told the waiter that this was one guest who wasn't interested in those elegant hors d'oeuvres, not even the Beluga caviar most of those in attendance were quite eager for.

Brett had avoided the others in attendance, focusing primarily on the exhibits. Some of the pieces were authentic, he noted to himself, though with one or two excellent reproductions being displayed as if they were originals, at least from what those discreetly placed cards indicated. 

One painting, the one he stood before now, supposedly by a highly-vaunted and newly-discovered French artist was, to his mind, so ghastly and poorly-rendered he could only hope for the painter's sake that it WAS a forgery. Modern art was one thing; standing at arms' length and throwing globs of paint indiscriminately at a canvas before slashing away with a putty knife was quite another, especially when you then had the audacity to attach a price tag in the high six figures. Calling it 'Hungarian Rhapsody' rendered the effort totally beneath contempt. 

He absently offered judgement to the empty space beside him, though not turning to look, knowing there was no one there. Still, he was sure his partner would have agreed with his evaluation.

"Actually, Daniel, I'd not even consider hanging that monstrosity in my gardening shed. Perhaps over the compost heap?" gathering a few appalled looks from those close enough to overhear his not quite under-the-breath comment. 

All in all, none of it caught his interest, not really - not the champagne, not the august company, certainly not the so-called art.

Of course, that WAS why he was supposed to be here, looking into what Judge Fulton had claimed was an art forgery ring; at least, that had been Fulton's idea when he'd so imperiously summoned the British lord earlier in the week.

Brett hadn't accepted the assignment, which had left the Judge whining and fuming about 'ingratitude', and 'one's duty', and 'moping about', and a great deal else Brett had no interest in listening to. That hadn't stopped Judge Fulton, of course, but Sinclair had stopped paying attention early on. In fact, he didn't really remember the rest, had certainly left without those protestations having the desired effect of changing his mind.

Still, when the invitation came to attend the reception at the embassy, he'd wavered, then accepted. Well, it was something to do, anyway.

This newest invitation, one from an old acquaintance, a fellow guest, was extended casually, with no thought of it being refused, which mean Bertie Mannerling was a little taken aback by the response.

"I can't. That's over Thanksgiving," Brett Sinclair said in a dull monotone. "I have plans." There was no real note of regret in his voice; in fact, there was no animation whatsoever in his face. 

"Oh, so you're going to be in the States for the end of the month? It's too late for the Canadian one, isn't it. Pity, we were hoping you would join Gloria and myself for a house party then. The usual, of course. Ten days, don't you see, starting on the twentieth. It should be quite entertaining, just scads of people, ever so amusing! We'd truly love to have you; perhaps you could . . . "

Lord Brett Sinclair had already turned away, eyes looking over the elegant crowd assembled at the Swiss Ambassador's reception with a disinterested air, Mannerling and his invitation already forgotten.

A puzzled, slightly indignant look was now sitting on Bertie Mannerling's rather vapid face at the unaccustomed rudeness exhibited by a man known for his exquisite politeness. 

Then he shrugged. His house party would hardly go lacking; well, they never did. Still, it was odd, Lord Sinclair turning aside the invitation with so little interest; he'd certainly been a dependable guest at past such events. Lady Foster was going to be most disappointed, of course, as would be various others. 

The phone rang. 

"Ah, Brett. There you are, old fellow. Ralph Jennings here. I'm flying out to Antibes the beginning of next week. Georgie and a few of the others and myself are making a try at that new casino Lord Fairdon opened. Dreadfully trite, most likely, you know how common Clive can be at times; takes far too much after his grandmother. A Canadian, you know; not quite so bad as an American, but still, lacking in the subtle nuances, you might say. Still, Borders was assisting him with the details, so supposedly there should be a FEW redeeming features, although drawing perhaps a few too many of the bourgeoisie crowd. 

"Well, at least it has to be better than what Colburn managed with that establishment he insisted on plumping down near Cannes. I could have told him, of course; you are either IN Cannes, or you are NOT, but poor fellow seems to be challenged in the map-reading department. Doubt it'll last six months. Anyway, thought you might join us; quite a lively set, my private plane, of course. We can leave on . . .

"I shan't be available. That is Thanksgiving week. I have plans," and the phone went dead in Ralph Jennings' ear, causing him to give an incredulous look at the receiver.

"I do believe he hung up on me! What on earth has gotten into the man??! Thanksgiving??! Not like there are any Americans dusting up HIS family tree, now are there??!"

Three days before Thanksgiving, Sinclair reluctantly picked up the telephone. The phone call to Charles, Lord Sinclair's go-to man for various and sundry occasions, was a quiet one. No specifics, just a simple "I think it best to forego the arrangements I asked you to put in place, Charles. Of course, I understand you've had certain expenditures in preparation; I will of course expect an invoice for all of that. And, of course, for your time and efforts. Rescheduling? No, I rather think not. My plans have changed. Just donate whatever is too late to cancel, will you? Thank you."

Charles would replace that telephone receiver with a puzzled frown. No, he had no worries about being paid for the work he had done, no worries about being, as they say, 'on the hook' for the arrangments already in place, not with Lord Sinclair. And anything past cancelling, he had a notebook of worthy establishments which would be most pleased to be the recipient of such largesse. Still, Lord Sinclair had been so pleased with what Charles had been able to deliver the previous year, and so enthusiastic (in a dignified sort of way, of course) about this year's plans for that American holiday. He wondered what might have happened to put all of that in abeyance.

Lord Brett Sinclair hung up the phone on his end, hesitated, then dialed another number. McNealson had handled matters for him before, and while not the only purveyor to whom he gave his custom, was usually reliable for emergency orders. Surely old Angus McNealson could handle this one in time for Thanksgiving Day; his altered plans depended on it. Getting assurances that all would be delivered as soon as possible, certainly no later than the afternoon prior to Thanksgiving was all Brett needed to know. Really, what else was there to know?

It was the day before Thanksgiving and Brett Sinclair sat nursing his third double-Scotch, frowning at his glass, wondering just when that famed distillery had started putting out such an inferior product. Not a hint of the expected exhilaration had resulted from the first or the second drink, only a steady increase in the leaden feeling inside.

"Really not worth the effort of even finishing this," he said half under his breath, but he did, slowly, without enthusiasm. There was still part of a bottle left; he might as well finish the job while he was at it. Anything to prevent him rehashing that last afternoon, the snippy comment that was met with a disdainful retort, ending with them each being in a huff that hadn't ended even by Danny's having stalked off, supposedly "to find someone in a better mood, Your Lordship. Perhaps someone who's just had his dog run over. Or maybe lost his last cent on the stock exchange, or just found out he's in the last stages of a fatal illness."

He'd watched from the window as Danny had pulled away from the curb outside, the car gathering speed the moment it entered the street. He'd stood there, he remembered now, thinking so indignantly that it was just like Danny to make a fuss over absolutely nothing and then storm off as if HE'D been the offended party. All over Brett's having gotten distracted by Melanie Jackson and her little problem, forgetting about dinner plans! Well, yes, not calling, not getting home til the following morning had probably been impolite, but it's not as if they were bound at the hip or anything! Such a showing of temper! So uncouth!

Yes, he'd finish the Scotch gladly, as bad as it was, if it would drown out that scene that kept repeating itself in his mind. He could go on to something with a bit more promise tomorrow. {"Or perhaps later this evening."} he thought, realizing it wasn't even getting dark yet, other than from the thunderclouds rolling overhead.

The bottle was gone now, with Brett eyeing one from a competing distillery with glum half-interest; he DID hate giving up on a solid plan. He'd gotten up to break the seal, pour another drink when the phone rang for perhaps the fourth time that afternoon. He ignored it, as he'd ignored it all the other times. This time, however, it seemed ignoring wasn't going to do the trick

"Blast it!" he grumbled, looking at the phone, wondering if it was even worth the effort of taking the few steps over to the desk to answer it. The only voice he wanted to hear wasn't going to be at the other end of that line; he knew that. ANOTHER phone call, one received over a month ago, had made sure of that. 

"And just whose fault is that, Sinclair, you bloody, BLOODY idiot??!" he swore aloud. He took a quick swallow of the aged Scotch, grimacing as it hit his stomach. Obviously ALL of the distilleries in Scotland were having a bad time of it, if THIS was the result!

Still, the blasted thing wouldn't stop - Ring! Ring! Ring! Ring! Ring! Ring!

Finally, a deep seething anger on his face, he surged to his feet determined to tell whoever was on the other end just what he thought about their NOT getting the message of an unanswered phone.

"Now see here . . . " he burst out, only to be interrupted by a brisk female voice.

"Lord Sinclair? This is M'Lynn O'Donnell. CharlieR's sister, you remember - Judge Fulton and his nonsense about Tomy and his sisters?"

He pulled himself together, remembering the two youngsters Judge Fulton had conned he and his partner into basically kidnapping. It was the O'Donnell family, amazingly forgiving considering all that, who had lent them - well, lent Danny to be more precise - Odellinn for their first real Christmas together. 

It was a struggle, but he brought his temper under control. His anger needed to be reserved for the one who truly deserved it, and that person, still holding that half-glass of Scotch, could wait for his bitter denounciation. It wasn't like he was going anywhere, after all.

"Yes, Miss O'Donnell. I remember. If you are looking for Daniel, I'm afraid . . . his words caught in his throat, a sudden picture of his partner flashing in front of him, loudly-dressed, wicked twinkle in those blue eyes, too painful to bear even after having a little time to get used to the idea that Danny was never coming back, never walking through that door, never crowding past all civilized boundaries. Never . . .

\- Never - Never - Never - 

The word seemed to echo in the cold, empty space that once Brett Sinclair had thought so warm and comfortable. The stray thought occurred, {"I wonder if I should move, perhaps to one of the estate houses,"} though he knew that would do little to alleviate his gloom. He had a feeling the gloom would just pack its bags and go along for the ride, however long that ride might be.

Now, forcing his mind back to the receiver in his hand, the girl patiently waiting at the other end, he struggled with the words, repeated himself, hearing his voice crack in the middle.

"If you are looking for Daniel, I'm afraid -" only to be interrupted by a voice far too cheery for his present mood, one that made him want to curse bitterly and throw the phone out the window, although it was firmly closed against the chill of the gloomy day with its thunderous clouds.

"Actually, Lord Sinclair, I'm NOT looking for Danny Wilde. Actually, in fact, it seems I've FOUND him. We were heading out to see if we couldn't retrieve him while it's still possible, and thought you might like to come along?"

Sinclair lowered himself carefully into the chair next to the desk, his mind a blank, his pulse pounding in his head.

"Found him - retrieve him. Miss O'Donnell, you must be mistaken. Daniel - - Danny's dead, you see," he said in a strangled voice. The dampness in his eyes was surely an after-effect of the Scotch; he was, after all, an emotionally-reserved man, as was only to be expected by a male of the Sinclair line. {"Sinclair men do not shed tears."}

He was quite sure of that, about Danny, anyway, though he was starting to have his doubts about Sinclair men and tears, though it was probably just the inferior Scotch, or so he told himself. 

After receiving that original call came from Cudillero alerting him to the accident, not able to get the information he wanted, needed by telephone, he'd packed his bag and immediately set out to prove the caller wrong. He couldn't imagine the irrepressible American being dead; up to his earlobes in trouble, yes, that was easy enough to imagine with Danny, but not dead.

In the end he'd come home alone, copies of the newspaper report, the police report, first-hand accounts from the two witnesses, and much more, including that one suitcase that had been thrown clear before Danny's car had plunged off the cliff and into the sea below.

Still, he'd waited, hoping against hope, as neither car or body had been found. He'd even stayed in Cudillero for a few days, taken out a boat for three days in a row, diving in the frigid waters trying to find some trace, but to no avail. He'd made arrangements for a reward to be posted, to encourage further searching, but the locals had warned him not to expect any takers. The tides in that area, the deep caves and more - the place was well known for devouring anything and anyone that came within reach.

Then, after being home for another week, he'd started making a list of those he needed to notify - Danny's Aunt Sophie, his accountant, his attorney, all the rest. He hadn't gotten around to any of that yet, though he flushed with shame at his lack of courage. It was the one last thing he could do for Danny, and he just couldn't bear to do it, even with the aid of the Scottish distilleries he was now supporting in a fine fashion. So he'd made up his mind - he'd carry on with his plan for Thanksgiving, which was to get thoroughly, absolutely, irrevocably blind drunk. Then, if he survived, he'd proceed with notifying everyone who needed to be notified. Then, perhaps, a repeat of that Thanksgiving Day agenda, until either he lost the urge or until it finished him, whichever came first.

M'Lynn cleared her throat, drawing his attention back to the phone. It would seem it wasn't the first time she'd tried to get his attention, at least from the patient though verging on impatient tone of her voie.

"Dead? Well, not so much, not from what I could see, though that certainly seems to be the public impression. I know there are those who have gone to a great deal of effort to put that story about, quell any inquiries to the contrary. I imagine all that's left his business ventures and other affairs in quite the uproar; he'll have a job straightening all that out, no doubt. 

"But I assure you, Lord Sinclair, he was alive as of earlier today when my sister and I left Cudillero. Probably a little mangled, though even that's not for certain. Quite ready to come home, I'd imagine. We should be able to manage a rather neat extraction and in a timely manner if we act without delay. 

"You know, I had thought of calling Odellinn and having Dolores plan on putting together some sort of 'Thanksgiving Dinner' when we return - or at least, for you and Danny; I'm sure he'll be quite ready for that! The situation he's ended up in doesn't seem to run to a well-stocked table, I'm afraid, not for the 'guests'. It's rather short notice, of course, and not her usual thing, but Dolores and Renaldo are beyond efficient and will probably do quite well.

"Of course, if you're busy and have other plans, would prefer not to go along for the trip -" 

There was a faint note of teasing in that voice now, though well mixed with a warm and understanding kindness.

Brett wasn't sure WHO responded; it surely couldn't have been HIS voice, that tight, breathless, "yes, of course I will go along! When, how -"

And he sat and listened to a story of too much power in the hands of one enveloped in a cloud of madness and delusion, and an accidental sighting that had led to the sudden emptiness in his life, along with the equally accidental sighting that led to this possibility of rescue, this possibility of a second chance. 

A quick glance out the window, from eyes now seemingly cleared of the dense overlaying of dull indifference that had afflicted him since he'd originally gotten word, shocked him. The sunshine, while thin, was trying to break through the dense heavy clouds, and as he listened, as he watched, one brilliant shaft of light struck the windowpane, reflecting in a kaleidoscoping rainbow that sparkled throughout the living room where he sat. He touched the dancing colors with one tentative finger, wondering if he was imagining it all - the light, the rainbow, that telephone call.

He hung up the phone gently, getting his thoughts organized before pulling out his traveling clothes, gathering up his passport, along with a considerable amount of funds in various currencies. While M'Lynn had assured him the latter would probably not be needed, that they'd 'greased the necessary palms, at least as best as we could determine,' he was leaving nothing to chance. 

That thought had him headed back to open the wall safe and draw out not just his small revolver, but a separate pocket pistol. Well, palms didn't always stay greased, plans did not always go according to schedule, and he was taking no chances. If Danny WAS still alive, he'd do whatever was needed to bring him home again.

It was a lucky thing, after all, that they were not expecting him at the small airfield for another three hours. He'd protested the delay, but M'Lynn had explained it would take that long to get the plane ready and to assemble the Gathering-In crew, whatever that odd term meant.

He knew it would take him no more than thirty minutes, forty at the longest to make his way to the meeting place. That allowed him time for putting on a very strong pot of coffee, and mixing a mustard-water emetic to get rid of the Scotch he'd been pouring down all afternoon. He wouldn't be comfortable, would probably have an abominable head during the drive and afterwards, but he could work through that. He could rest on the flight while listening to the plans that had been made to pull Danny out of that very tight hole he'd fallen into. 

Afterwards -

At Odellinn, Brett leaned back in his chair, toying with the warm cinnamon-basted apple pie topped with cheddar that a smiling Dolores had just served them. 

"And she has been doing this for HOW long?" he asked incredulously.

Danny Wilde, thinner, certainly, and sporting various bruises, some older, some more recent, include a harsh reminder of the shackles that had bound him by one ankle, one wrist for his entire stay, shook his head in sheer disbelief. 

"The way I understand it, for about twenty years now. La Majera, as the locals call her, is the richest landowner in the area, and her daddy gave her anything she wanted. That included any stray guys she happened to spot that she took a fancy to, anyone she thinks she can 'see the artist' or 'composer' or 'musician, hell, maybe even the 'chef' or 'landscape genius' just waiting to be discovered. The woman is seriously nuts, ya know? 

"The whole crew there, they got it down to a science. She points to who she wants, they rig an accident, or maybe the guy just disappears off the map. Any questions get asked, the authorities know to play along - the newspapers, the law, anyone and everyone. Then she's got a new toy to play with, a new 'Eliza' to play to her 'Professor Higgins'. Til she gets what she wants or gets tired of him or he finds a way to escape."

Danny had a remarkably grim look in his eyes as he looked at Brett.

"From the skeletons you say you found in that side wing, I don't think anyone escaped very far, though. Can you believe that? Everyone posed just like she 'saw' them? Standing in front of a half-finished canvas, like she probably intended for me, or with a manuscript, or a bunch of pots and pans, or whatever the hell her craziness could come up with! You never said how many?" looking at Brett questioningly.

Brett shivered and lied through his teeth, "I did not stop to count, Daniel. I'm sure the authorities, whatever their failings, can manage a tally. Along with retrieving and returning your car, of course, and possibly your remaining luggage, as well," thinking that would distract Danny from remembering, from guessing how close he'd come to adding to that number.

{"Twenty-eight, in total, Daniel. Twenty-eight poor souls, stolen away from all they knew and cared for. And with a space being prepared for a twenty-nineth, with a canvas already on its easel stand, covered palette and tin of artists' brushes just waiting."}. 

The vision of that nightmare of a room would haunt his dreams now, knowing Daniel had been slated to add to the number in but a short time. 

Brett still had to wonder at the miracle they'd been afforded, a lucky twist of Fate no one could ever have been expecting. Well, La Majera having put out the word for a translator, one capable of deciphering that old family manuscript - the translator being recommended turning out to be M'Coury O'Donnell. The young woman, rather a legend in her field no matter her youth, had made no promises, but had agreed to take a look on her way from one place to another, and then arriving with her younger sister, Molly Lynn - M'Lynn' - in tow. M'Lynn, who'd caught a glimpse of Danny Wilde, recognized him from that prior encounter, even in those odd clothes, even in shackles. Brown eyes seeing a cry for help in a pair of familiar blue ones, her hoping to the skies above she was interpreting that right, that Danny wasn't on a scam and just wanting her to butt out and not spoil his play. 

{"A miracle, certainly nothing less, but one I will give thanks for for the rest of my life!"}

Danny was still working on his roasted chicken and scalloped potatoes, eating slowly to keep his too-long-deprived stomach from rebelling. His captor took the saying 'starving artist' much to heart.

"And when she got tired of someone who just didn't seem to be 'fulfilling their potential' no matter how much she 'encouraged' him, well, there's the ocean right there. Seems the tides there, they can make a body disappear real fast."

Brett nodded, "yes, so I was told when I searched. I found a man willing to work the boat, but no one who would dive with me."

Danny frowned, "you're just lucky you got back on shore! With everyone being in La Majera's pocket, would'a been easy enough to make you disappear too. A little diving accident, that sort of thing. But, I guess making a British Lord disappear would be kinda pushing it, coming so close along after me doing the same."

"I rather wish they'd have tried, Daniel. Perhaps I would have caught on, reached you sooner. As it was, if it hadn't been for that odd bit of luck, I might never have known, certainly not in time," his face, his voice no longer shielding his guilt, his remorse.

"Hey, kid! Stop right there! Woulda just ended up with you dead, and not like that woulda done me any good!" Danny frowned at his partner, pushing his plate away, shaking his head as Brett indicated the pie with a raised brow.

Dolores slipped back into the room. "Mr. Wilde, Lord Sinclair? We thought you might prefer to spend tonight here, perhaps tomorrow or longer as well? To rest up in privacy? Before you need to face any questions or formalities, I mean. If so, the room you used previously has been made up, and Renaldo and I will be quite pleased to provide meals and whatever else you might require. The small bar in your room is well stocked, of course, but if there is anything else you might need, you have only to ask."

Brett looked at Danny, seeing the bone-deep weariness there, the eagerness at the thought of a bed close at hand. 

"That would be most gratifying, Dolores. I believe we will take you up on your kind offer," Sinclair replied with a grateful smile.

Upstairs, after taking hot showers and wrapping themselves in the lush robes hung on the back of the door, Danny sighed.

"Think I'm going to have a Scotch, kid. You want one?"

He had to wonder at the look of deep revulsion that flashed over Sinclair's face. 

"Ah, no, thank you, Daniel. I believe I'm rather off Scotch for right now. Perhaps a brandy?" moving to take over dispensing of the drinks.

And Danny nodded, "yeah, that sounds even better," moving over to stretch out on the bed, watching as Brett poured them each a small glass of the excellent brandy.

"I thought Dolores did quite well, don't you? Especially on such short notice," Sinclair asked as he took a sip. "Not the usual Thanksgiving menu, I know, but I'll make it up to you, I promise. And perhaps when I do, it will be a brighter day, not so cold or rainy," glancing at the raindrop-streaked window overlooking the garden.

Danny stretched out, leaning back with a contented sigh. "Seems plenty warm enough to me. And, is it raining? I hadn't noticed, kid," smiling at his partner, those blue eyes twinkling. 

Brett echoed the pose, then the sigh of contentment. "Perhaps you are right, Danny. Perhaps you are right. In any case, Happy Thanksgiving."

"And to you, Your Lordship. Hey, now that you mention it, it is a little chilly in here. What say you get your Duke-ly buns over here and keep me warm, huh??" he smirked with a low laugh.

Brett Sinclair sighed once again, this time with patient forebearance. "Daniel, MUST you be so . . ."

He glanced at that weary but smiling face, those twinkling eyes, and as he moved toward his partner, his sentence drifted off into space, the words no longer having any meaning or importance.

And outside a cold Thanksgiving rain fell, though inside Odellinn, things were as comfortable and warm as anyone could ever have wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> References stories: 'Wrong End of the Stick' and 'Spending Christmas'


End file.
